All Alright

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After awaking from a jet lag-fueled summer afternoon nap, we met up with friends and friends of friends at a ghetto-looking (and tasting) Mexican restaurant in the USC area. From there, we received word of a party of friends of the friends of the friends. So we split up into two cars and followed the party informant up through the Hollywood Hills. And the higher we reached, the faster the girl in front of us started to drive, threateningly close to flying off a curve and into the dusty Hollywood foliage.

We would’ve been lost without our maniac guide, so we had no choice but to follow her break-neck speed. Steeper and steeper, as the houses became more decadent and the view more luxurious, it soon turned into a high risk/high reward situation. Thankfully, I was not driving. When we finally reached the peak, it was time to park. We split with the plucky leader to find a spot of our own, climbed another hill, and reached the party.

People were out front, music was blaring, the door was wide open, and we entered. The house was built of modest size, flawless in light and space. The view was equally spectacular, probably used in one of the scenes where the dweebs of Entourage look out, throw their hands up in the air, and exclaim, “Now, boys, we’ve finally made it!”

Except we hadn’t made it. Two minutes after we arrived, Ms. Led Foot called, telling us that we were at the wrong party. We were intruders in the lives of the infinitely cool. But we stayed anyway; drank some fancy tequila and awkwardly mingled for a bit, pretending to know the host, whose name I discovered is Drew. I wanted to go home that very instant, put all my belongings in a cab, kick Drew out and take shelter in his glorious quarters. The only fault, I found, was that Drew did not seem to own any books, but I could easily supply my own. I'll let Drew keep his house, though, because I have time.